Dracula Teeth Brushing!!!

We here at the Hindenburg don't want you to self-actualize. We don't want to improve your life, we put no interest in your dietary habits, and don't give a shit about those Gnome Whittlings you keep sending us. All we want from you is to send us satchels of money and to tell us where Chris Sabo is hiding. We've got his Rookie of the Year Trophy on our mantle and want him to come pick this shit up. 

I don't have a lover but I still managed to have breakfast in bed. I don't have a lover so breakfast in bed equates to a cold Pop Tart.  Like the Bermuda Triangle and Bon Bons, Pop Tarts were once a very big part of my existence. I'd eat them while reading scab papers at the breakfast table. I thought this would be a darling anecdote to include but our demographic probably supports the strikers in any and all scenario. Your opinion of me aside, you can't debate the fact that I was half asleep, holding a Pop Tart to begin the day. You can judge almost anything, but not this. It was a "Welcome Back" moment, the first I've had in some time. 

Pop Tarts have dwindled from my life like appointments to the dentist. I think about them, I  harbor some sense of appreciation, but it just isn't worth the effort. (Note: it's hard to type with all these cavities). These problems have their roots though. I got caught stealing from the Dentist. I also vomited on a road trip with a belly full of Pop Tarts and my mom said "I Guess Pop Tarts are ruined forever." Holding a cold Pop Tart in my hand in my half asleep state I wondered for a bit why I didn't eat Pop Tarts anymore, I knew they could never be ruined no matter how many I threw up. If anything Pop Tarts are one of the few foods meant to be vomited. With their jagged edges, splinters of frosting, and propensity to turn into paper mache. It is a wonder that no rural South American Tribes employ this process as a rite of manhood. I can't wait until I have sons and these sons have Bar Mitzvahs (I intend to marry an Albino Jewess). It'll take months to clean the carpets (I intend on never wearing socks in my home again). 

I didn't need coffee to wake up this morning. The Cinnamon  danced on the cusp of my nostril and it was purely romantic. 

The first bite was taken and all I could taste was blood. Now I recall the reasons for dumping my favorite flat snack. After a love affair with the famed toaster pastry I began to taste blood with each and every bite of each and every flavor. This isn't to say that I don't enjoy Pop Tarts, because I do. Tasting blood in a thin pastry sheet is a surprise best left for the midnight hours. Stumbling down the street you might and up shooting bits of tart out your mouth, into traffic, and into the thing of legend. Like I said, nothing can be immortal in the morning hours so why not wait to appreciate it correctly. It's like wine that way. 

I don't know what General Mills has up in the waters of Battle Creek (Cereal City) but I have reason to believe that they have some Genocide going on up there. I have seen The Road to Welleville and see no reason to doubt any atrocities. When I taste a tinge of iron and a bit of flesh I don't feel disgust. I simply see it as a drastic change in the dynamic of breakfast treats. This should, by all accounts, be disturbing. It isn't. 

Oddly enough, the blood helps the strawberry variety. 

Let's Go To The Beach

Today seemed to be a cursed one on any and all fronts. Try as I might I just couldn't get the mail to come. 'Round these parts mailmen come and go like little whimsies. We get a new mailman once a week and I can never figure out what time is the best time to stagger out of bed and out to the mailbox in my underwear. When something reliable as the mail goes unreliable you know it's not one for the ages. I'll admit it took 2 White Russians to get out of bed, pick up my finest ivory handled comb, and go do whatever it is I do. 

One of the things I do is work on my fame in the Philippines. Thank you for the kindness of your comment Raouual, we look forward to future comments from you. 

Another thing I do is people watch. 

Seeing strangers cavort about in their everyday activities I cannot help but judge, turning average into idiocy, but by the same token I cannot help but give them the benefit of the doubt. In the glimpse of rudimentary opinion one can seem both fruitless, fruitful, and fruity. People who I barely know assume more importance than great friends if only because they still  have their luster. I am free to make up whatever history I want. 

In my imagination: Clarence, 36, goes home and methodically does puzzles. Has sex 4.5 times a week. Restores exotic cars. 

In our reality and let'[s not debate the nature of this term for too long): Clarence, 36, loves Desperate Housewives. 

There is something beautiful to this pattern of living assumptions. There are however downfalls. Cool kids you are supposed to be cool kids. You are supposed to, nay obligated, to live a life of Cocaine, body painting, and general in flux activities. Move closer to these cool kids and they are just like you and me except they have no grasp on baseball and spend too much time thinking about sneakers. Cool kids, at the very least be interesting to imagine. 

This is why I'd like to marry a stranger. I won't already know where the scars are. 

fuck giraffes, all uppity with their long necks and their fancy toys

In my scant days as a Hindenburger, I have tackled such diverse topics as Richard Dreyfuss, ghost dinosaurs, and international politics vis-a-vis whiskey drinking. However, recently I have become obsessed with a new topic: Adulthood.

In the time since my (admittedly less-than-graceful) departure from Princeton, I have, quite suddenly, grown up. I find myself a less-goofy Tom Hanks, suddenly Big, if you will indulge me. Working 9-5 at my own version of a toy company (it involves virtually no transforming robots or giant-keyboard dancing), I find myself staring deeply into the gloaming of adult responsibility. Suddenly it is no longer acceptable to show up to every occasion hungover and reeking of whiskey sours; apparently getting drunk on borrowed gin and falling asleep in a rolling suitcase is not fitting of a grown man. Yes, dear friends, this Puritanical world of water bills and grocery shopping (just one bottle of wine at dinner, young man--nay, a half!) is a disorienting place, and the urge to cry, to stay in bed, or enroll in graduate school can be strong, and tempting.

Fret thee not, however! There is an oasis in this professionally-attired desert. There are office parties to attend and have too much to drink at! There is classic workplace gossip; nothing says fun like talking shit about fellow employees when you should be working! And don't forget fucking around on the internetz. Yes, friends, there is hope. At first, you feel daunted, cowed, by your newfound adulthood. You stand stiff, set your alarm to give ample time to prepare and then leave for work, become concerned with "getting enough sleep" and fulfilling your responsibilities at work. After a bit of time passes, however, you're showing up to work with that good ol' vodka cologne not-so-delicately applied, lips still stained a faint Sparks orange, and you excuse yourself to vomit in the employee restroom.

No one grows up anymore, anyway.

good things to pour whiskey into

Dr. Pepper:

Kittehs:

Eagles:

Kofi Annan:

The Reverberations of Positive Thinking

Salutations dear readers,

Before getting into specifics I must apologize for my lack of presence here these last few weeks. Rehab has been progressing splendidly. I have managed to reach all my goals so far and father checks in every Sunday for brunch and a quick game of croquet.

Along with rehab I have also been busy falling in love. The object of my affection is a wonderful young twenty-something named Betsy. She is fetching in all the ways one could be, and unlike my past romantic interest, Claire, you would be quite wrong in calling her a prude.

Now I must cut this short, for my lovely Betsy is calling to me from her room next door. Yes, like Claire she lives next door, except to the right of my room rather than the left. It appears she fancies a swim, so we must be off.

I hope all is well with all of you and your loved ones, and that each and everyone of you are accomplishing your dreams on a daily basis.

-AASXLIII

mink coats are for winners...and congressional representatives

today i watched a man get punched over a dvd copy of the sixth season of the simpsons. it was one of the most fierce things i have ever seen, and it was perputrated by a couple in their late teens/early twenties.

while i felt a tinge of remorse for the man whose face was most definitely aching, i also found myself wondering about the chaos that was obvs running through the heads of those kids. there was a time in the not too distant path, when i may have been just like them. not saying that i would walk around punching middle aged men who were just trying to buy episodes of a tv show they loved so dearly in their college years (back when they were actually young! and still felt like they belonged at concerts), but there was a time when i was very--i dont know how to phrase it exactly--restless.

from the time i was 16 until about half way through my 19th year of life, everything i saw around me sucked. it not that i was living a bad life (in fact things were pretty neat now that i think about it) it just that everything seemed stupid, retarded, and lacked any sense of realness (in the keepin it real sense of the word). i lived in a world full of fakeness and i didnt need a plaid hunters cap to notice it (not saying that thats what he needed, but you know what i mean? yeh?). i guess this is a feeling most people experience at some point during their lives, adolescents in particular, the thing was i just wanted to destroy everything, fuck it all up and start all over again. it was a naive and ill thought out way of thinking, but what can i say. i was young and i romanticized pretty much everything. well, everything that was badass at least.

obvs shit eventually changed in my head, eventually i came to grips with the idea that destruction was not the ends to my mean, but instead lameness. not that this realization has stopped me from being punched time after time after time, but i now walk around and appreciate the things that litter my life rather than question their street cred. its really a lot more constructive.

now instead of wanting to put my fist through everything i see, i just want to pack everything i own into a bright red back pack, hop on my bike, and ride through the japanese country side learning everything i can about life. i don't think about this all the time, just a few minutes a week.

Disgustingly Beautiful and not a Maggot Magpie

Note: I don't use text book definitions. I employ instead the vernacular of dock side workers in various regions of Maryland.

The cold fact is that nothing amazing has ever happened. Every instant of amazement merely poses. It is coincidence, performance, and luck. Things fit into their pegs and except for the most EXTREME CONDITIONS, they stay in their place. Even when something occurs to spark notions of inspiration and wonderful, for the most part, it has it's place within the unwritten rules that govern the way things. For instance: A tree grows for fifty years in a pattern looking just like the Eiffel Tower. This is not amazing. Trees have a propensity a grow and existence has a propensity to explore it's bounds. It is still cool as hell but not quite amazing. For instance: A tree grows for fifty years and starts spitting out age old operettas. That is amazing, if solely because it is otherwise unfathomable.

If the Sixth Sense were a documentary, the subject would be the most extraordinary event in the history of the universe.

With things prone to reason there is a limited impossibility for changes to occur merely for the purpose of changing. The Dead don't rise and people don't turn invisible. Nothing is magical. Nothing exists for the sole purpose to create fun or provide euphoria. There is nothing on the human body not associated with movement, feeling, or other various biologic systems.

Not with jenkem. Jenkem is a street drug developed from the fermentation of various human feces in a soda bottle topped with a balloon for several hours or days. The gas from the feces accumulates into the balloon. The gases are then huffed and you get high, real high apparently.

I don't about you but I find this to be a beautiful idea.

With jenkem the world is stretching out the tendrils of it's long cool fingers to provide an unexpected lift. It involves the huffing of feces and a n advanced sense of bliss. How wonderful it could be that something as useless as feces could be harnessed for a purpose, albeit a ridiculous one. With feces taking on such a property, the reason for no reason at all is validated, and the existence of God can be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.

The process this takes on exists for you and I to smile. Someone out there wants us to.

Oh wait. No. Jenkem is fake. Nothing will ever exist for the reason of for no reason at all. At least there's culture. I'll see you at the screening for Mr. Magorium's Magical Emporium I 'll be the one crying.

sweater vest or cardigan, do it like you mean it

I just finished watching Mr. Holland's Opus, and there are a slew of thoughts racing through my brain. Among the most pertinent:

--How did Mr. Holland manage to spend almost 40 years composing his "American Symphony" only to have it emerge as a hot 90s movie jam; but not just any movie jam...the theme to his own movie!!! Fuck you, Dave Eggars, Richard Dreyfuss is on some real meta shit.

--Mr. Holland's tragically deaf son Cole somehow, between 1980 and 1995, grew into a ponytail-rocking, khaki-vest-and-shorts-wearing, fannypack-flossing Gunter. I bet he drove the whole way to the climactic scene with deep house bumping in the car while out of his mind on ketamine, the odometer needle pushing 95.

--Someone explain to me why Mr. Holland didn't peace out to New York in the mid-70s with that "hot" musical chick. Who could ask for anything more indeed, Mr. Holland. Fuckin' A, if he had gone to New York with her, he could have hung out all creepy-like in Central Park West until he "accidentally" met John Lennon. He could have bought lil' Sean an ice-cream cone, and climbed a tree together. Maybe John would have invited Mr. Holland up to his apartment in The Dakota, and they could've smoked pot and talked about Ray Charles. Yoko probs would have been pissed, but what else is new? For fuck's sake, who wrote this movie? I see a totally different ending--Mr. Holland leaves his wife and child to get rowdy with a girl 20 years his junior in the wild, untamed party of NYC circa '76, develops an unlikely bond with John & Yoko, has a falling out with them, and is ultimately the one to drunkenly suggest to Mark David Chapman that he go and shoot Lennon. This would give the "Opus" referred to in the film's title an entirely different meaning: instead of referring to the dozens and dozens of lives Holland touched and changed throughout his career, it would be a reference to his direct role in the death of one the greatest musicians in history. That kind of irony really trumps the "oh shit, I'm a music teacher but my son was born deaf" from earlier in the film.

--I know that dopey bass-drum kid gets killed in 'Nam, and that's sad, because he's goofy and charming. But given that Mr. Holland's career encompassed the entirety of the conflict in Vietnam, isn't it odd that Mr. Holland mourns only the death of this one student? Surely there were others. You're a cold-blooded gangsta, Mr. Holland.

TARANTULAS!!!

ARE EVERYWHERE!

Would a life without spiders be worth living? They scare some? They inspire others. They are unpleasant to kiss. They have small prickly, hairs. They do not have ego. Spiders, though creepy, sre innately altruistic. A spider once bought me lunch.

There are many details that comprise the day and day monotony. One is Spiders. One is speed (the pace not the drug). The other is rules. There ain't no need for nothing so fancy. Let's put glitter pants and go a 'prancing. I'm not Mickey Avalon but I WILL drink warm Coors Light.

Spiders have a unique sense of self about them. It is debatable as to whether or not they have feelings. However, this debate is stupid. Spiders are integral, vital, and borderline essential. This is how I view the ABA from days past.

I got the booze in my system.

Somebody gonna be my victim.

I dare you to give me a pertinent response to my bullshit. Read the last like 90 posts. Iam like a tarantula. You will see me but won;t notice my mission. I owned a tarantula for like 7 months and the only mission I ascribed from this octo-sapien was that he enjoyed hiding.

I'm not ready to hide. I'm ready to stand tall and fight for any issue. HOWEVER. The only REAl issue is that they won't open up the old salt mines for tours. If you don't know where salt comes from than you probably don't know anything. By such a standard you probably can'r associate with me. Salt is important. The origins of condiments are important. If they aren't, than nothing is. Nothing is, except Rik Smits. The Dunking Dutchman? I MUST! I MIST!!!

pita bread makes horrible comfort food

as you should young soviet. as you should. now just work on not being an asshole and you might be onto something. but probably not.

efforts are often wasted because of humanity's many weakness, and i will have faith in minxie only after he has proven to me that i should have faith in him. will that day ever come, that is for me, danica patrick, and greg st. pierre to know. although who knows if he'll ever become aware of the fact while crookedly staggering through the streets of downtown prague with a hitch in his giddy up.

groveling
intrawebs
dandelions
dithering
yesterday

undertow
patriarch

and now my attention is needed elsewhere. and i need to sleep.

Sorrow Tinged

I'll admit it. You got me. i'm faking it. I don;'t love Machoopa and I'm not this haphazardly sad, I'll admit that I am incompetent of the unforgivable sins of incompetence, idiocy, and other shit ass fuck hole sins. I'm too busy living for such wastelands. 

Some folks tell me I'm sad. I tell them life's hard without a vested interest. They don;t understand. Though I drooled until I was 21 I still feel like a child prodigy. My past keeps following me and mucking up my way. 

I work at Social Sciences Library. My name is Rita. For lunch I eat the salt off my arms for sustenance. 

I don't believe in Randy Moss or postage stamp. I don;t believe that anything should try to be extraordinary. That is why Randy or stamos are extra-super -good. They don't strain to be relevant. They simply don't fit the mold. These are the same reasons people eat viatnemese food, because it conjures up notions of Warhol. The thing about the amazing is that it doesn't come forth from preparation, intellect, or SMARTS. The only source of such phenomenon is instinct. How do you convince some one that they are incredible within six days? Trust yourself, honky...  

Mom, I love you. you re the dog to my hurricane. If I was Jimmy Carter I qould build you a house without pity. The world is wowing me on every front and it is edging on an affront but from here on out I will embrace the fact that I am not here to be wower. I am simply here to watch the amazing happen. When are Durant and Melo facing off? I need something to believe in. My ideas are boring. The friendships are stagnant. I don't own a blender.  '

My attitude might be terrible but I love every moment. 

cyndi lauper and premonitions of death

whoa is me minxie, always resorting to stories about gunters when the going gets tough.

for all of you reading, yes minxie has gone through some tough times, some of which were spent lying on his death bed in the land of ______ chocolate. but havent we all layed on our own death beds from time to time. well maybe we havent (in my case at least) but still the hostility is as unwarranted as could be. what have minxie's friends done to him to make him feel the necessity to tear us down.

you know i know weve all agreed not to air company business (a pact minxie has ignored time after time) but when he started telling everyone about minxies problems, my shit was flipped. sure archibalds a fucked up kiddie kat but so was i and so was minxie im sure. i mean i dont know for sure, being open and being minxie are apparently too separate things.

this thing is starting to flail out of control so let me just say thing, minxie you are currently living through the time of your life, so instead of reminding us all about our inadequacies why dont you try to enjoy your life for once. fer realz yo, shitd do you some good.

SPIKEBOARD!!!

Wouldn't it be better if it was horrible? Think Michael Bay! Think Film School Students! Everything horrible and devastating is summed up and exacerbated by the next willing/waiting generation. The attitudes I see on a daily basis are terrible and sad. I imagine that these are the sort of attitudes that produced Nick Van Exel and the novel The Historian. I couldn't read that novel when dying. I watched NFL Europe but still couldn't read about Vampire Menstruation. 

Little known fact: I the author, was not always so positive but at one point in time I was on my death bed. I was mighty close to the great beyond REM sang so strongly about but I had a vision. I saw my ego, I saw all the negativity, but at that moment near death that I smiled. Nothing would ever get to me. On my deathbed, with massive internal bleeding I didn't fear, I didn't quake, I asked foreign speaking doctors about Dirk Nowitzki. There was no fear but on the cusp I agreed that the life I lived was worthwhile and worthy. 

The current version is even more worthwhile but without validation of even the most mundane of sorts. That is how it goes. I suppose. 

:Life is good. Life is boring, If I were a starving albino at the very least I'd have something to think about. 

I would rather be Chris Wilcox then go to class. My tags are amazing. 

I couldn't post them but here they are...

Re: The Great Debate

so im sleeping just minutes ago and i get a call from chuck telling me to avoid the blog for a few days. why i say? well lets just say dartmouth possibly about to take things a bit too far. he hung up right after, i think hed realized the mistake hed made. if he wanted me to avoid the blog his best bet wouldve been not telling me and hoping id be fall into one of my patented apathetic trances. thing is that shit aint going to happen? the reason, im aware of it, and minxie this shit aint dying, so go fuck yourself and your "girlfriend," *cough*cough* i mean your auntie margo, come down from tacoma. just because youre hanging out with a girl (or actually should i call your aunt that, are you still a girl when youre in your sixties, i sort of think not) doesnt mean your going out. so again, i repeat, go fuck yourself and stop being a scourge around these parts. youre like brian williams ii always trying to match up to me, chuck, arch, and dr. dino (id say curt too, but were still waiting to here back from him) and i got one thing to say to you just because youre a hindenburg (like williams ii is a williams) doesnt mean your THE brian williams.

take your juvenile airing of our laundry cool it. the thing is chuck was all hesitant about us inviting you aboard, but i was all about it. little did i know youd turn to be such a jeter, turning on your "friends" at the first possible chance.

and as for your bait? dockside demo? i dont even know what that is.

The Great Debate

Ok sit. Here we go. We've been a blog now but it's high time we became an experiment. I think it is time that Sergei and Dr. Dinosaur come out of the down low and have their great debate of fist versus hammer. This is the equivalent of Eva versus Teri but that won't happen til the year 2009 when no one watches TV anymore. HINT: They will always be busy injecting plasm. 

I don't need a girl friend. Or a girlfriend. I have plasma. Have you ever screwed plasma?!? It's like playing PF with Acie Law IV as your PG. In the rare case that you are Al Horford/Gay I recommend that you take to graffiti and eat all the salt water taffy and lie about it. 

 A GROUP OF FRIENDS RECENTLY FOUND A PIECE OF SHIT/ POUND OF HASHISH IN HIS VAN.  I was the person they came to, to test the relevance of this shitish. I didn;t try it. Even minxes have standards. 

My girlfriend> Your girlfriend. 

Her birthday was yesterday. 

We shared toes and discovered China. 

We ate the placenta and became impotent. 

We played "Pass The Peach". 

We also found a unicorn horn. 

And played the Arizona Cardinals. 

It was grEAT. We ATE!!!

Go to the dockside demo. Roy will get blown out anyway.